


Trade Your Heroes for Ghosts

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Zayn-centric, Ziam canon, but a happy ending, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's okay, honestly. He thinks he's breathing. He's still here... but he's not. Zayn's just trying to breathe and, maybe, he needs these four lads to help him remember how to. Maybe he needs Liam to remind him why he's breathing. Maybe he just needs Liam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trade Your Heroes for Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is a bit depressing. It's a collection of thoughts and feelings, most of them sad (maybe triggering).
> 
> I wrote this because of thoughts that I or others have had lately. For the people on Tumblr, the people who adore Ziam, for anyone who's had thoughts like this. It's a two fold thing and I hope this is really helpful for some people rather than just something to make someone cry. And I promise it has a happy ending :) This is only the second time I've written canon-Ziam, so I hope it's okay?
> 
> Title taken from "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd

He’s not breathing.

He inhales the oxygen, lets it sit in his chest, breathes it out, but he doesn’t think he’s actually breathing.  Maybe he’s drowning.  He’s not sure.  It weighs on his shoulders, tightens his chest, sends a shake through his hands when he tries to fight against it.

It passes, like it always does, and he lets it circle around his mind until it comes back.  It will.  It _always_ does.

Zayn takes a long huff of his cigarette, leaning on the side one of the tour buses.  He’s trying to keep his head ducked, hiding from the click of a camera, the scream of a fan calling his name, from everything.  He drags his shaking fingers through his thick hair, letting the tangle of its length wrap around his digits until he exhales out the smoke.  He flutters his lashes against his cheeks, watching the ground, the way his Nike trainers are dragging against it.  He doesn’t know how long he’s been out here, under the sun, wasting every breath away but it feels like forever.

This feeling feels like _forever_.

Another pull, the smoke seeping into his bloodstream while he rubs at the end of his nose, drags the tips of his finger over the dryness of his lips.  His teeth bite down on his bottom lip, checking his phone.  Twenty minutes.  He laughs to himself, tipping his head back to exhale the smoke out through his nose this time.  He watches it curl around him, clinging to him like his thoughts seem to.  He blinks at the sun, watches the way it bares down on him like everything else has.

He’s not okay.  He reminds himself that each chance he takes a breath.  It’s a cold, harsh reality that he thinks is taking up residence in his mind.

He thinks maybe it’s the exhaustion settling in.  He didn’t sleep much in the hotel room this morning, despite the nice sheets, the fluffy duvet, the pillows his head sunk into as soon as he pressed against them.  He hasn’t slept much for weeks, at least not without trying.  He misses tumbling into slumber without thinking about it, waking up with his head on Niall’s shoulder, maybe pressed to a cold window, resting in Liam’s lap until he was forced to pull away.  Even then, he lingered in that peaceful state in between sleep and reality, where all the edges were blurred and fuzzy.

He misses the long stretches, the way his muscles would ache for a little more time.  He misses his feet in Louis’ lap, Harry curled around Louis with Niall snoring on the other side of the room.  He thinks about fingers pulling through his dark hair, words murmured in Liam’s sleep.  The way Liam always looked like a crumpled angel trying to wish for another cloud to hang on for a few more hours of rest.  Louis’ quirky smile even though he’s too tired to berate Zayn for laying out across them or the way Harry always sleeps with his mouth open.

He misses _them_ , before all of this.

They’re all exhausted, he knows.  Niall’s dragging a little more day after day and he’s no longer denying it.  Louis’ even more cranky than usual, not that it’s not anything Zayn hasn’t been able to ignore since he was seventeen and unprepared for the road he was trekking down.  Harry’s buoyant as ever, stumbling off the bus with sleep-warm smiles, dimples, bright eyes even though he’s doing it all off of three, maybe four hours rest.  Liam’s quiet, but Liam’s always quiet.  He’s kind grins, small touches, little laughs that are almost inaudible with the way sleep wears on him like the pressure of a dying star.  But Zayn can see it – in those heavy brown eyes that don’t spark as bright, the way that smirk doesn’t lift as high, the touches that are almost cold and absentminded rather than purposeful and uplifting.

He thinks he feels it the most.  He’s blinking it back every moment.  It’s not tears, at least that’s what he tells himself.  But it’s different, alone in a hotel room, the lights off and the shadows swallowing him.  In there, he feels the tears soaking his cheeks.  He feels the way he trembles, crying out silently for something.  Mercy?  Peace?  An escape?

He thinks about not breathing.  He thinks it’ll be easier.  Maybe the weight would be less, the sinking feeling in his chest lifting, the pressure fluttering away.  Maybe the tears wouldn’t feel so staining.  Maybe the hurt – the one that he can’t describe to anyone, not even himself – wouldn’t be there anymore.  Just nothing.

Nothing would be nice, if only for a moment.

He curls his lips around his cigarette, a few quick puffs that he doesn’t let seep into his system.  He lets the heat strike against his skin again, the burn nothing compared to what singes against his mind.  He snorts, coughing out a few clouds of smoke.  He feels the buzz of his phone – another Twitter notification, another missed call, another text, _another_ voice he doesn’t want to hear.  He answers the calls from his mum, Doniya, even Anthony when he feels truly up to it.  He ignores management, anyone with power over him.  Though, he feels it now – _everyone_ has power over him now.

Niall thinks maybe they’re just homesick.  He thinks Niall’s fucking crazy.

They _are_ homesick.  They are tired.  They are lost.  It’s just a daze of city after city, spinning lights turning to blurs.  The sun slides over the moon, the cold shifts against his skin.  There’s countless faces, ones he’ll never remember though he’s grateful for each of them.  Honestly, it’s what he wants.  The adoration, the affection, the knowledge that this gift he has manages to change someone else’s life in the slightest.  It’s what keeps him on the slow movement to _what_?  He doesn’t know.  But he keeps moving.  He keeps dragging his feet.

His thumb rubs over the scruff on his face, that neatly shaven skin forgotten days ago when he felt good enough to do things like that.  When he breathed the air like it was rich, not suffocating.  When he genuinely laughed at something Harry said or chased Niall around the streets like there was nothing holding them, binding them to this life they lead.

Sometimes he misses home – Bradford, not London.  He misses that house he grew up in, not the nice one his family lives in now.  The one this money bought for them – not that the money does anything else to remedy his spirit.

He wishes for Doniya waking him when the sun’s lifting high in the sky, dusting the clouds in oranges and gold.  He misses the sound of Safaa’s voice, the minty bubblegum Waliyha chews, the sound of his mum humming as she made Shepard’s pie or those sticky desserts he loves.  He just wants to sleep in Waliyha’s bed while she chats at him or pretend not to miss the fact that Safaa’s so grown now, no longer that little girl he could scoop up into his arms and carry around.

He thinks about London too, the way it sits so comfortably in his heart now.  He remembers Liam was the first of them to get his own flat, something nice and simple just like Liam.  He remembers Louis and Harry rooming together, something that was so unfortunately disastrous that it was perfect.  He thinks about the days he’d spend at Liam’s, living there more often than he did his own flat, even though his flat was furnished with everything he needed.  He doesn’t think it was to escape Ant or Danny because, no, they were his best mates.  Well, they _were_.  But they all spent their time at Liam’s, including Harry even though he was something of a drifter, crashing at whoever’s flat was closest to whatever bar or club he wanted to waste his time at.

Zayn can still remember Liam’s couch, the old one his parents gave him because Liam was quite fond of it growing up.  He misses the way it smells like clean laundry and something flowery – not Danielle’s perfume because that was overly sweet and a bit appalling.  He would catch a kip on the frumpy cushions, his head resting on the arm of the couch until Liam woke him with dopey smiles and wide eyes.  He doesn’t stay on that couch now when he visits and it’s the one thing that manages to push a smile across his lips.  Liam’s bed smells warm, stiff with cologne that has a heady firewood scent that Zayn clings to.  The bed smells like _Liam_ , something Zayn never thought he’d get used to so many years ago when they were all crowded into a bungalow with big dreams and little expectations.

His tongue runs across his lips, searching for something other than the taste of nicotine.  It’s not there.  It hasn’t been in days.  He focuses on a silver panel of the bus across from him, tying to remember the way Liam made tea in his kitchen while Louis rattled on about trivial things, Niall searching the cupboards for anything other than healthy food to munch on.  He can still feel the way his eyes would focus on Liam, looking up through his lashes while eating a bowl of cereal on the counter.  Liam would do his best to appease Niall, try to keep up with Louis’ chatting, remember to wake Harry up before the car came around.  Always sensible, always looking out for them.

He can still see the blush that murdered Liam’s cheeks whenever he looked up at Zayn – a faint rosy color that brought out the caramel in Liam’s brown eyes.  The color accented the curve of Liam’s cheeks, the soft slope of his nose, the thickness of those soft eyebrows.  He would offer Zayn a fumbled smile, ducking his head while wiping down clean dishes and telling Niall not to drink the orange juice straigh from the carton.

Zayn drags his thumb over his lips, eyes sliding shut to try and remember kisses – sweet like chocolate that burned like a wildfire.  He _can’t_.  It aches, splits his mind in two until he’s taking another pull of his cigarette to chase away the bitterness in his mouth.

Yeah, not breathing for a little while wouldn’t be so bad.

He misses a call from Danny, something he thinks he’ll regret later.  It’s been too many days since he’s heard Danny’s voice, a little reminder of home he doesn’t think he wants.  He can’t be there and Danny’s too busy to travel with them in the States.  He isn’t completely crushed about it because he has his mates, his boys, the four lads he feels like he’s known since his first breath.  Still, maybe a little escape – some kind of wicked trouble he and Danny could get into without him getting arrested or feeling the complete wrath of management bearing down on him.

Zayn hollows out a breath, watching the smoke flutter away.  He can’t force himself to eat, something he should do because his body is weak, nearly a half a step behind of where he’s used to being.  Everything feels too much, even something simple like a banana and some fucking Weetabix.  He rubs at his arm, feel the muscles, the bones stiff under his fingers.  He misses the days he felt weightless, putting away a plate of food at the speed Niall could.  His eyes slide shut again, squeezing tightly, blocking out the burden starting to lean heavily against him.

He sees all of the articles, well, _most_ of them.  Liam shields a lot of it from him – _fucking guardian angel_ , Zayn thinks –, Harry too.  Louis leaves him to his own torture – “You’re a right arse if you read that shit.  It’s pointless.  They don’t _know_ you or us.  It’s all a pile of rubbish and you can subject yourself to it if you want to mate.  Fucking bullshit.”  Niall threads through most of it with a smile and a laugh, pointing out the most ridiculous things he can find.  Zayn glimpses over it, trying not to let it sink it.  It does.  It bites at his skin, leaves scars on his senses, something bleeding out from within.

He’s too skinny.  He’s too quiet.  He thinks he’s too cool.  He’s selfish, a complete dick to every fan.  His hair, his clothes, his smoking.  He’s in love with her.  He’s going to marry her.  He fucking cheated on her and she stuck around because he’s a pile of shit and she loves him.  He’s different.  Zayn is a fucking terrorist because he’s not like the rest of them.  He has a different religion, a different tone to his skin, a different accent.  He’s anything but extraordinary and that what makes him the worst of them all.

It doesn’t unsettle him too much, most of it.  It’s complete fiction.  Utter bullshit – “Or a nice form of entertainment,” Niall reminds him – and he doesn’t know why he bothers.  But he does.

It rattles him and then he’s drowning again, trying to make it through another night or day or whatever piece of life this is because he’s not really sure anymore.

It gets easier, having all of them around.  They’re all his mates, more like brothers except for Liam.  Liam’s his best mate, has been for longer than Zayn’s said it.  The others stopped being jealous of it long ago because they each play their role, each have their own favorites even though they’re hard pressed to admit it.

Harry’s best friends with the world, something that’s quite amusing and almost amazing – the way Harry juggles it all.  Louis’ best mate is Harry, Liam, or Zayn, depending on the day.  Harry is Louis’ strength, though Louis is hard pressed to admit when he’s weak.  Zayn thinks it’s because they’ve both been sort of in love with each other since they were young, stupid, out of control – well, maybe they still are that.  It’s nice, knowing he can lean on Louis when he needs to or know that Louis will take care of Liam when Zayn doesn’t have the strength or the words to do so himself.  He might be more than a little envious of the way Liam whispers to Louis, gives him looks that only Louis understands, lays his problems in Louis’ lap when he thinks Zayn isn’t paying attention.

Niall loves them all, equally.  They’re his brothers, the ones he can cling to when his own is back home in Mullingar.  He can trade laughs with Louis, cuddle close to Harry, speak deeply and meaningless with Liam all at once, and flirt with Zayn until they’re a fit of giggles and stupidity.  They all crowd around Niall when they know it’s becoming too much, pulling him in until that feeling lifts.  They never move too far away – maybe for their own sake rather than Niall’s – but they all know it’s the reminder they needed that they’re letting all of this become bigger than them.  That they’re moving too far away from each other even though they promised they never would do such a thing.

He needs that reminder more than he needs this fucking cigarette, but he still takes another drag, letting the smoke filter through him.  It does its job, better than any alcohol does.  It calms him, momentarily.  Still, it’s starting to dull.  He goes through a pack a lot faster now, huffing through a cigarette in the morning, after lunch, before and after sound check, right after each show.

The smoke does just enough to keep him going.

“Hey.”

Zayn looks up, blinking at Niall for a moment.  He watches Niall grin, rubbing at the back of his neck before adjusting the snapback on his fluffy blonde head.  Zayn offers him a weak smile in return.  He’s gotten used to this – putting on a smile.  It’s believable, for the most part, but he knows the cracks are showing.  He catches it in the way Niall’s blue eyes dull a little, his smile waning.

“’m just finishing up,” Zayn offers, holding up his dying cigarette, the ash hanging off the tip.

“Yeah,” Niall says with a nod, a tiny smirk.  “Just checking on you.”

“’m fine,” Zayn says quickly, an automatic response that feels so dead against his tongue.  He nods at Niall, raising his smile a little.  “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Niall repeats, dragging his high tops over the graveled ground beneath him.  “Just gonna go catch up with Haz.  Take a little walk around the city, you know?  Checking out the sights.”

Zayn nods, his smile thickening.  That innocence and anxiousness in Niall’s face never seems to fade.  It’s nice, welcoming.

“Think I’m gonna catch a kip, yeah?  Feeling a little knackered,” Zayn offers, lifting his shoulders for a small shrug.

“Yeah, yeah.  Sounds perfect, mate,” Niall concedes but there’s something behind those electric blue eyes now.

Zayn doesn’t feel like deciphering it but it feels like concern, dread.  It’s a wave against Zayn, his head dropping some before he’s taking a sharp inhale from his fag.

He doesn’t know how to explain himself to any of them.  He doesn’t know how to explain the emptiness on the inside, the way it pulls and pulls until he feels like he’s ripped apart.  He merely nods at Niall, waiting on Niall to return the action before Niall’s spinning on his heels, starting a slow walk away.

“Liam’s gonna go grab a bite to eat if you want to join him,” Niall adds over his shoulder, sucking in his bottom lip.  He’s offering Zayn some sort of safety net.

“’m good.  Thanks Nialler,” Zayn says with a tight smile.  He’s something of a daredevil now, living without a worry of falling.

If he falls, maybe all of this will stop.

“Right,” Niall says with another nod.  Zayn spots the frown that passes over Niall’s lips before he turns away, stomping out his cigarette.

He can’t breathe again.  He can’t do it and he’s rubbing at his chest, trying to remember he has to.  For his mum, his dad, his sisters.  For Ant and Danny.  For a fucking galaxy of adoring fans.

For everyone but himself.  He’s too empty to know what he’s doing for himself anymore.

**

Zayn’s grateful it’s Harry who finds him backstage, scrubbing at his eyes until those hot tears feel invisible again.

He can’t handle anymore looks from Niall, the ones longing for Zayn to be himself again.  He doesn’t know who that is anymore.  He doesn’t know if he ever did.  Maybe this person, this quiet and shy boy wasn’t really who he was underneath this skin.  Maybe the one that smiled through every picture with the fans, did his best to hit every note as best he could, lived and breathed this life until he choked on it wasn’t him.  He doesn’t know but he can’t feel Niall’s eyes on him anymore.  He can’t disappoint Niall.  Not that little blonde-haired guy with the goofy smile, ocean blue eyes, and the kind of heart Zayn wishes he had.  He can’t let Niall down or let him carry this burden for Zayn.

He’s certain Louis would probably swear at him, give him a few shoves, and then hug him.  He doesn’t want the hugs, doesn’t sort that he deserves them.  He knows Louis would whisper words of encouragement, remind that if he’s not doing this for himself, he shouldn’t be doing it at all.  Louis would tell him none of this bullshit was worth it, not a single piece of it if Zayn’s heart wasn’t in it.  Louis would remind him that this feeling, whatever it is that Zayn still can’t describe, is one they’ve all felt.  Zayn thinks he’s full of it.  No one can feel this much heaviness, this much pain and nothingness all at once.

He knows Liam would… _No_.  Not Liam.  He can’t think about Liam.  It breaks him until he’s trembling and, fuck, he hates Liam.  He fucking hates Liam Payne for making it hurt this bad to _think_ about him.

Harry’s quiet, shutting the door behind himself and locking it.  He leans against it, head tipped back, looking straight ahead at the wall behind Zayn.  He gives Zayn the space to breathe, to let those last few thick tears roll down his defined cheeks.  He lets Zayn tremble and struggle to breathe for moments, the walls closing in.  It’s dark, too bright, fucking a whirlwind of push, pull, push, pull.  Fuck, he’s shaking and he needs a cigarette or a drink or a fucking way out of this.  He’s a coward, he’s religious, and he knows he can’t do it himself – find a permanent escape that stops his breathing, takes away this pain.  He can’t.

But, fuck, he wants a way out.

Zayn pulls his trembling fingers through his hair – fuck, he knows he’ll have to get it fixed before the show starts.  He feels the sting of the tears clinging to his eyes, shaking his hands rapidly to try and loosen this feeling.  He laughs, bitter and clipped.  He fucking laughs and shakes all at once because this is silly.

Zayn Malik isn’t crying.  Not for the _sixth_ time in two days.  No, he’s _not_.  If he was he would have a reason.  A valid reason.  Something besides the fact that he feels so completely empty and meaningless that these damn tears won’t stop burning against his skin.

“’m _fine_ ,” Zayn says shakily to Harry, waiting until those large green eyes fall on him.

“Didn’t say anything, Zayn,” Harry mutters, rocking back against the door.  He focuses his eyes on the wall again.

“But I know you’re thinking it,” Zayn huffs out, scrubbing the heel of his hand over his face.  Yeah, he’s going to need that fucking stage makeup that cakes on his skin and takes an hour to wash away to hide all of this.  He sniffles, kicking the toe of his shoe against the beat up carpet on the floor.  He swallows – he _tries_ to but it comes out choked – before whispering, “They’re all thinking it.”

“Who gives a fuck,” Harry pushes out, a deep inhale poking his chest out.

Zayn almost wants to laugh at that silly, ripped up plaid shirt that has two, maybe three buttons done up.  He wants Harry to take off that stupid fedora, rolled up jeans – Honestly, he’s more like Louis than Louis ever was – and just be that goofy, cheeky, curly-haired boy he was years ago.  Zayn doesn’t need this sage Harry, this free spirit who doesn’t care up from down as long as they exist.

Zayn despises him because Harry’s what he’s not – _happy_.

“I’m okay, Haz, really,” Zayn says, his voice still wavering.  “Just a call from me mum, that’s all.  Missing home.”

“Right,” Harry says with a small nod, shooting Zayn an incredulous look that lasts far longer than Zayn wants it to.

Zayn wishes he was lying.  He wishes it was someone other than his mum, one of the few people who read beneath the layers and layers of disguise Zayn put into his voice.  The one person – outside of Louis, of course – who always called Zayn on his bullshit, whether he was ready to face it or not.  The one with the voice that was still nurturing and encouraging even though she freely scolded Zayn for living a lie.  She wanted him happy, something he couldn’t define now without a dictionary.

She reminded him that he always has a place at home, away from this life.  That he has a purpose, whether he understood it or not.  She gave him the okay to cry, something he was biting at the moment he answered his call.  She was a soft voice, letting him sob to her until he had to stop to breathe.  She reminded him that none of it was real, no matter how hard he tried to make it for everyone else.  She was stern in telling him to believe in his heart, walk with his head high, know that when it feels darkest, there’s a splinter of light.

He’s suffocating on the shadows waiting on the break of dawn.

She loves him, loves everything that he loves, everyone that he loves.  She laughed while talking about Liam, something that made him smile if only for a brief second.  She’s chatted with Perrie – a dryness to her tone – and she understands it all.  She knows it’s too much for him and he wishes desperately he was there in her arms, crying into her shoulder, letting it all wash away for just a beat.  Just a fucking second with her perfume in his nose, her hair against his face, and his world coming to a stop.

“When it’s time, you’ll know.  And that feeling in your heart, the one that you keep telling yourself is worth it?  Oh, my love, it’s so worth it,” she tells him before they fall into a few words about his next visit home and how much his baba misses him.

“‘m going to be fine,” Zayn tells Harry, his fingers curling to fists at his side.  His dull nails bite at the skin, his shaking subsiding.

Harry drags a hand down his face, nodding.  “I know.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Zayn adds, inhaling a deep breath.  He lets it sit, swelling in his chest until it feels bearable.

“m trying not to Zee,” Harry exhales out, finally letting those green eyes fall on Zayn.

Zayn thinks he sees something sticking to them, a glassiness that feels all too familiar.  It chokes Zayn’s next breath, his head dropping.  All he wanted was those green eyes.  Now?  He wants them to go away, to hide those ghosts behind the tears Harry’s hold in.

“I can get Liam,” Harry offers when Zayn’s shoulders slump forward.

Zayn snaps his head up, shaking it quickly.  “No.”

Harry nods, disappointment setting in.  “He’s your best mate.”

“You’re all my best mate,” Zayn laughs out, the sound strangled and dying before it starts.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs out with a sharp smile, that dimple finally flaring, “but he’s _Liam_.”

If he’s being honest – sometimes it’s not always enough.

Liam’s everyone’s mate.  He gets on with everyone, takes care of everyone.  He’s kind, proper, considerate, and maybe too serious at times.  Maybe he takes too much to heart.  He lets everything get under his skin, not like Zayn who goes as long as possible without giving a fuck.  He thinks Anthony and Danny taught him that, Louis too.  But Liam?  He hurts when they hurt.  He’s angry for them, far too often now that he’s getting older, free from those burdens he let wrestle him down before.

And Liam has his moments where he’s too focused on the world to notice Zayn cracking right at the edges again.  He doesn’t think Liam notices Zayn keeping to himself – not going out when the others party across the city or talking just enough to the fans to get away.  Maybe he doesn’t see the Zayn that’s chatting with Perrie just because she’s a friend too, but maybe he’s doing it to distract the attention away from everything else the world thinks is wrong with him.  Maybe he doesn’t see the Zayn that’s doing all of this, this career, for the music and the smiles it brings rather than the fame and the attention that Harry and Louis love.  He hates the attention.  The way it cages him, makes him feel bitter.

He hates that everything is smoking, hair, Perrie, leather jackets, and a fucking image he didn’t mean to create.

“C’mon,” Zayn says, shivering out another smile for Harry.  Harry smiles back, swallowing.  It’s enough for Zayn to take those few steps forward, punch at Harry’s shoulder until they’re laughing together.

“We’ve got a show, yeah?”

“We’re going to _smash_ it,” Harry laughs out, nodding.

“It’s going to be sick, mate, ‘m telling you,” Zayn adds, grinning.

Harry snorts, nodding again.  He unlocks the door, rubbing at Zayn’s shoulder before turning the knob.

Zayn tries not to worry about the way he knows his thoughts are going to ravage him, leave him in a dizzy sickness until they’re on that stage.  It’s enough of a distraction that he misses when Harry pulls him into a hug, burying his nose in Zayn’s hair.  He feels the tightness of Harry’s embrace, the way Harry’s almost shaking as he holds Zayn.

“Still me,” Harry whispers, his voice tight.  “And you’re still you.  We’re all still _us_ , bro.  Don’t forget that.  It’s all a fucking job; even that shit with _her_.  Just a job, man.  Li – _we_ are all still here for you.”

He lifts shaky arms to wrap around Harry, rubbing at his back until Harry breathes again.  He hopes Harry’s breathing for both of them because he doesn’t have the will power to remember how to right now.

**

He’s alive onstage.  It’s an electric shock from start to finish that he thrives on.  It’s a built-in distraction, the way he’s floating on some sort of high, too far up to know anything but this moment.  He’s moving across the stage, laughing with Niall, winking at Harry, shoving Louis.  He bites at his lip when Liam passes him, sharing small glances that no one seems to understand.  He does.  He can breathe when Liam sings to him, at him, _with_ him.  He aches, a slow burning pain that only lasts seconds, when Liam’s eyes drift away.  He sees it without Niall pointing it out – the distance, the way they don’t move together like the roll of a brilliant wave in the ocean.  He drifts closer to Harry, trades off lines and little dances with Niall.  He spots the way Liam does his best through it all, offering smiles and small waves but there’s a glimmer – something dark, hollowing – every other beat across Liam’s face.  It chokes him, his smile wider and brighter for the fans but he’s dying.

Fuck, this is what dying feels like.

He’s not worried about who he’s leaving behind, why this feeling is numbing and scary and he’s tipping off to the side to avoid the looks Harry’s giving him because there’s a sadness rounding Liam’s eyes.  There’s a draw away from his energy, a dip in his notes.  Liam’s shit at hiding his emotions, something the rest of them mastered back when they were the five lads on everyone’s telly trying to survive in a competition they never imagined to make it that far in.

It slides away later, when Zayn manages to rest a hand on Liam’s shoulder or when Liam pulls him close for a line or two.  It’s a moment nearly forgotten – a rose for Liam, a smile across his lips because it’s impossible for him to deny that feeling when Liam smirks.  It feels so long ago now, though it’s only been a week.  His heart finds a rhythm, a weak one, when Liam steals a fan’s phone to capture pictures of Zayn, smiling as he records them all losing themselves in the moment.  There’s a pulse in his veins again when Liam offers him a smile across the stage, one that’s a ghost of the ones Zayn knows so well.

He’s somewhere between living and dying and it feels like an echo of everywhere he doesn’t want to be.

Hold your breath.  Keep it in.  Don’t blink.  Force it out.  Still here.  Still empty and _still here_.

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

He’s backstage, toweling himself off, trying to wipe away the sweat before this high dies down.  He doesn’t know where they’re going next, how long the ride on the bus will be, when their next day off is.

He knows Louis’ voice.  It’s tense, it’s shrill, and it’s directed at him.

The others have already left, making their way out to the strums of fans waiting behind fences and corners for them.  It’s just he and Louis, a few security and personnel scattered around the venue but not here.  Not in this room.

It’s him and Louis.  An obviously angry Louis.

“What?”

“You’re an absolute idiot,” Louis says with a hiss, hands on his hips.  His fringe is damp, sticking to his forehead while his black t-shirt clings to his skin.  His cheeks are flushed, narrowed blue eyes focused on Zayn’s face.  His jaw is flexing, a sure sign that he’s pissed.

Zayn sighs softly, leaning against a makeup table.  He takes a swallow of his water.  He’s too knackered, too dull from pain.  He lets his eyes drop, teeth biting into his already raw lip.

“’m not sure what you’re talking ‘bout.”

Louis snorts.  “The fuck you don’t.”

“What do you want me to do?” Zayn snaps, his head jerking up.  He feels his heart in his throat, his hands shaking again, fingers gripping at the stupid plastic water bottle.  His chest is heaving, the emotions swelling and colliding and he doesn’t know if he’s angry with Louis or just desperate.  Just looking for someone to take the weight off of his shoulders, off of his life.

Someone to just tell him what the fuck he’s supposed to do because crying isn’t doing it.  Deep breaths are shit.  Remembering that “it gets better” is like remembering the last time he had a fucking toothache.

Louis studies him for a moment, his upper lip curling before sliding into a knowing smile.

“ _That_.  I want you to do that, Zayn,” Louis says, his words still tense.  “I want you to feel _something_ , mate.  I want you to be angry.  Fuck, tell someone you feel something.”

“I do.”

“Who?” Louis rebuffs quickly, taking a step forward.

Zayn backs further into the table, trying not to tremble.  Maybe he wants Louis to hit him, give him an excuse to run away from this.  Maybe then he can cry over his emptiness.  Yeah, he’d have a reason then, right?

“I chat with Perrie about – “

Louis groans, throwing his hands up.  “C’mon Zayn.  She’s a sweet girl, I’m sure.  She’s just as lovely as any of ‘em have been but she’s not here.  She’s not in this with you.  She’s just some, I don’t know, _person_.  Someone you know who – “

“Who everyone believes I’m in love with.  Someone who’s fucking in my life when I can’t remember why,” Zayn hisses back, inching off the table.  He takes a shaky step forward because, yeah, he could hit Louis.  He could punch one of the few people in this fucked up world that he trusts more than anything.

Fuck it all, he could risk losing a mate, a brother just for this throb in his head to latch onto something else.

“It means nothing, Zayn,” Louis says with a deep sigh.  He’s shaking his head, raising his hands defensively toward Zayn.  “You’re an idiot for going this long like this.”

“’m okay,” Zayn says.  He’s on repeat, again and again and again.  It’s shakier every time the words pass his lips.

“Fucking bullshit.”

“You wouldn’t know,” Zayn says, his voice defeated.

“You’re right because you won’t fucking _let_ me,” Louis barks, tossing his own water bottle against the wall.  The plastic smacks, smashes just a little softer than the way Zayn’s heart thumps in his chest.

He needs a smoke.

“It hurts him,” Louis hisses.  He sounds wounded, falling just as quickly as Zayn thinks he is.  “He’s doing great because, well fuck, you know how he is.  But how many times do you think I can pick him up?  How many times do you think I can drag him around, city to fucking city, and pretend for him?  Do you want me to wait until he sorts it out?”

“No,” Zayn whispers.  He’s hiding behind his lashes, trying to remember to breathe.  He needs to breathe in this instance.  He needs to taste the oxygen, remember its purpose because he has to be here.

For someone other than himself.  No, for _himself_ because dying with a broken heart hurts loads more than living with an emptiness.

“He’ll sort it all out,” Louis tells him, something edging on softness clinging to his tone.  “He’ll sort out that finally leaving her because he loves you was a mistake.  He’ll sort that that ink on your arm might mean something other than a way out of this shit we’re all wrapped up in.  He’ll try to remember you were just his mate a long, long fucking time ago Malik.  Then he’ll be like he is now – not giving two fucks about what the world thinks long enough to do something dumb again.”

 _Again_.  Yeah, he’ll do it again just because maybe he’s a little tired of the world weighing on him just as Zayn’s tired of it weighing on him.  But maybe it’ll be more than cutting his hair off, giving himself to the rush.  More than another piece of ink on his arm.

Maybe it’ll be forgetting how much Zayn aches for him.  How none of this really seems to matter anymore when Zayn doesn’t have that smile, those hands, those eyes on him.

Zayn licks at his lips, tastes the salt from a single tear.  He takes another swig of his water, trying to relieve some of the ache from his dry throat.  He wishes there was something to fill up that space that’s cracking him in half now.

Fucking Louis Tomlinson and his words.  Where’s that fucking cigarette?

Zayn pushes his fingers through his hair, looking up when Louis’ close enough.  He can taste Louis’ breaths, something weighty in those bright blue eyes.  There’s no tears, not like it was with Harry.  The frown’s missing like the one that was on Niall’s lips.  There’s a blankness for a moment before Louis’ smiling, resting a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.  It doesn’t feel heavy like the burden he’s been carrying, like the tears he’s been holding, like the life he’s been leading.

It feels like Louis understands.

“I’d be a right mess if you left.  I’d cry and cry until there were no more tears.  And then you know what?  I cried some more because you’re not here,” Louis whispers, his smile still honest and solemn.  “But you’d just be a memory.  You wouldn’t be _here_.  I’d have to remember you in these last few weeks and that’s not the Zayn I love.  It’s just a hollow of who he is and, fuck, I can’t live with that.  Haz can’t.  Nialler can’t.  Li… he just _can’t_.”

Zayn nods, his tongue licking out to taste another tear, another following.  He sniffs, rubbing his forearm across the end of his nose.  He can’t look away, desperate as he may be.  He stares into those blue eyes, the ones that are rocking against him like a fucking tidal wave.

It hurts now.  It always hurts now but it doesn’t hurt forever.  It never does.  He’s just not sure how to get past _now_.

“Remember, when it’s bad, it’s bad.  But when it’s brilliant?  Fuck Zayn, it’s bloody fantastic.  Smashing even,” Louis laughs out, still rubbing small circles over Zayn’s shoulder.  It’s comforting when Zayn’s certain it didn’t used to be.  “It’s just right now.  Just now, babe.”

Zayn swallows, breathes in deep.  He nods at Louis, biting at his bottom lip.  He smiles when Louis wraps himself around Zayn, thumping Zayn’s back until a laugh escapes.  Fucking Louis Tomlinson and his fucking words.  It’s like a hurricane, this feeling of brotherhood and protection and everything that keeps him breathing.

It’s just now.  Something tells him he can make it past that.

**

The bus is cold and quiet.  The steady rock over the highway is a drowned out sound, the motor loud enough to rattle him a little but not enough to swallow him whole.

It’s dark in the back, all of the lights dimmed except for the glow from the telly and one of the overhead lights, the one furthest from him.  The leather is warm beneath him, his knees drawn to his chest, his chin sitting on top of them.  He watches his phone light up in the shadows – Perrie, maybe Doniya, probably someone he doesn’t want to talk to.  He doesn’t want to talk at all, staring down at a blank sketchbook he hasn’t touched since this ride has started.

He can hear Niall’s snores somewhere in the distance, something sounding like Harry’s giggle pressed beneath the sound of Louis’ murmuring something.  They’re all buried in their bunks, trying to catch that little bit of sleep they have between cities.  He hasn’t bothered to see where Liam is though he’s certain Liam’s probably in his bunk too, nodding off or thumbing through another late night session on Twitter.  He’s thought about it himself – sleep, not Twitter – but it doesn’t happen.  He shifts his eyes closed, blinks them open, repeats.  It just won’t settle against him and he feels _cold_.  Cold and sticky with still drying sweat.

He feels the world drifting by and it’s not as overwhelming here.  There’s no one calling his name, needing his attention, needing him to be something magical and beautiful and fucking amazing.

No, he’s just a small, broken shard of himself here.  It’s just enough for him to breathe.

He thinks he’s breathing but, again, he’s not really sure.

There’s a shuffling, a clearing of a throat that draws his heavy eyes up.  He stutters on a breath, watching Liam stumble sleepily into the small area, falling down onto the leather couch next to Zayn.  His lids are droopy, a sleep-warm smile on his lips as he drags thick fingers through that scruffy hair at the top of his head.  He scratches at his bristly stubble, chewing on his bottom lip for a second.  His wide shoulders are stretching out a t-shirt, legs shifting in baggy joggers with white socks on.  He rocks with the bus for a moment, glancing over Zayn until Zayn feels small.

He thinks he should leave.  Those brown eyes are too much, too loud, too… _adoring_.

He watches that smile slide down a little, Liam tucking his chin as he looks down on Zayn.  Zayn curls around himself a little, licking at his chapped lips.  Their silence is deafening, a raging swirl of noise in Zayn’s head that has him cringing.

“C’mon,” Liam says with a bright smile folding over his lips.  He looks a bit ridiculous with his arms spread wide, an invitation that follows the one in his eyes.  He’s nodding at Zayn, waiting until Zayn’s snickering because, fuck, he can’t help it.

Liam is mental.  He’s fucking mad and he’s waving his arms around, waiting patiently on Zayn.

“Babe,” Liam draws out, the sound soft but challenging.  “C’mere.  _Please_.”

Zayn sighs – breathe in, hold it, breathe out – before he’s scooting the small distance separating them.  He’s not prepared for Liam to drag him those final millimeters, those strong arms hauling Zayn in until Zayn’s head is pressed firmly to Liam’s chest.  He smells like sweat, like sleep, like… fuck, he smells like _Liam_.  And that’s it.  It’s all he can handle.

The first few tears burn, Liam’s hands rubbing gently at his back.  The next couple trickle down like thick raindrops.  They continue, his breath hitching, a whimper passing through his lips.  He’s shaking and sobbing, fingers curling into the tight material of Liam’s shirt until he can’t stop the tears.  They slice hotly down his cheeks and, yeah, he’s holding on for dear life now.

“I’m o – “

“You’re _not_ okay,” Liam says stiffly, pressing a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head.  He buries his nose in Zayn’s flat hair, dragging his chin along Zayn’s forehead, the scruff sharp and burning.  “And it’s okay that you’re not.  It’s okay.  You can tell yourself; it’s fine.”

Zayn shakes his head, bites down hard on his lip until he knows there’s that sharp, coppery taste of blood.  It does nothing to stop the tears, the way his lashes are stuck together from trying to blink them out.  It doesn’t loosen his fingers on Liam’s shirt, cease the way his body is rocked by another shiver every time he tries to breathe in.

And, fuck, he can _breathe_.  In Liam’s strong, tight arms, Zayn can breathe.

“You can cry,” Liam whispers, dragging his nose over Zayn’s head.  There’s another kiss, fingers pressing at the dip in Zayn’s back, arms closing in tighter.  “I won’t stop you.  It’s good to cry.  It’s good to know when you’re not okay.”

“’m _not_ ,” Zayn says through a weak sob, trembling again.  “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” Liam says with a smile, his hand reaching up until his thumb slips down Zayn’s cheek, catching a few tears.  “I just needed you to know.”

Zayn nods, his body caving in.  He tries to fit his arms around Liam, grateful when Liam leans forward so Zayn’s wiry arms can slide into the space left between Liam and the back of the couch.  He bites at Liam’s shirt, trying to quiet his whimpers, squeezing his eyes until thinner tears start to form.

His vision is blurry, his nose wet, his tongue tasting salt and relief.  Fucking relief of pressure and emptiness and a life he thought was slowly becoming meaningless.  A life he didn’t know if he could appreciate but he could because, yeah, it does start to fade – the pain, the weight, the feelings that claw at his skin until he’s numb from the ache.

Zayn swallows hard, breathing out a shaky exhale when he sees Harry leaning in the doorway to the back room.  His curls are pushed back behind a beanie, the dim light of the room barely catching the glow of his smile.  Zayn can see his dimples, the life in those green eyes.  He looks… _happy_.  He looks settled, staying far back as to not let Liam catch a glimpse of him in the doorway.  He nods at Zayn like he knows.

He’s nodding at Zayn like he knows this is what Zayn really needed.

“You’re okay,” Liam mumbles against his skin, stroking his back a little firmer.

“’m okay.”

“It doesn’t matter what they say, babe,” Liam adds, lips against Zayn’s hairline.  “You’re beautiful.  Fucking talented.  Amazing.  You don’t have to change or be someone else.”

“Those dicks need to get a proper job, right?” Zayn tries to laugh out, the sound rattling against his throat.

Liam snickers lowly, nodding.  “Yeah.”  He feels Liam swallow, fingers stilling for a moment before he softly adds, “And I don’t want to do this without you.”

“I’m sorry.  ‘m sorry about this and me and, fuck, all of the shit you have to deal with because of her and – “

Liam shushes him, fingers sliding upward to settle between his shoulder blades.  They play along a stretch of his skin, right along the tattoo there, trickling over the feathers.

“Doesn’t matter.  I love you,” Liam sights out, the words slick with meaning.  They’re genuine, something Liam doesn’t know how not to be.  He presses his nose to Zayn’s forehead, a small choked breath before he whispers, “’m in love with you, Zayn.”

Zayn swallows, the words scratching at his chest.  He forgets to breathe but he doesn’t forget the way the words feel on his tongue.  “I love you too, babe.  I… _fuck_ , I’m in love with you, babe.  _Massively_.”

Liam pushes Zayn’s hair back, pressing slow kisses to his forehead, doing his best to reduce Zayn’s labored breathing.  He noses Zayn’s skin, running a thumb over Zayn’s eyebrows, across his eyes to collect the last of the tears.  He wonders if this is what it feels like when Zayn kisses him deep in the night – the rough drag of scruff over his skin with wandering hands that won’t stay still long enough to catalogue the touch.  It doesn’t matter because it helps to ease the way his body is betraying him.

When the tears dry, the world a little less closed in, he accepts drifting kisses from Liam.  There’s still a sting against his eyes, an exhaustion seeping over him like the dew of the morning against the grass.  He tastes the excitement in Liam’s kisses, the slow and lazy ones that chase away Zayn’s fears.  The quick ones that are coupled with a quiet giggle from Liam that remind Zayn of days long before they knew what it meant to hide these feelings.  The kisses that are long, drawn out, teeth nipping at Zayn’s bottom lip before Liam’s pulling back.  Those kisses taste like love and promises and a world only they know.

They were the kind of kisses Liam gives him after a long shower, laid across Liam’s sheets with Liam hovering over him.  They were the kisses Zayn remembers from the first time Liam whispered three words into his ears, the first time they laid across some hotel bed in the middle of nowhere and let their bodies act out what their hearts couldn’t.  They were the kind of kisses that reminded him that, yeah, he can hurt.  He can hurt because Liam would pull him in, they all would, and see him through the pain.

The kind of kisses Liam pressed to his lips after the first time they had sex, smiles on their lips and a buzz in their heads.

Those memorable kisses that helped him breathe when he didn’t know if he should anymore.

He traces his fingers over those thick arrows along Liam’s arm, trying to remember which one represented him.  It didn’t matter.  He knew it meant all of them, the four people who built a fort around Liam’s heart.  His fingers trickle further in, dancing over tan skin until they reach that single feather.  The one that’s broad, long, dotted with dark ink.  He smiles to himself – a missing feather from a piece of artwork etched across Zayn’s chest.  A small memento for just them.  No one else.  Another reason he had to remember this thing with Liam seems lasting.

It lasts longer than the emptiness, the feeling of not wanting to be around long enough to find out how wonderful this kind of love ends.

“Can we sleep here?” Zayn asks, his voice shy and quiet, still a bit broken,

Liam nods, dancing a few more kisses across Zayn’s lips.  “Whatever you want.”

“And at the hotel,” Zayn swallows, blinking away the ghosts of a few more tears.  “Can we – “

“Same bed, babe,” Liam snickers, etching his thumb along Zayn’s jaw.

“Love you.”

Liam smiles, warm, incredibly warm and happy.  The sort of happiness that follows whenever Zayn sings to him, looks him in the eyes after a joke.  Whenever he folds Liam’s legs around his waist right before they wrinkle the sheets with sweat, tangled fingers, Zayn sliding inside of him, and low grunts through the best sort of sex.

The smile that Zayn remembers when he’s sinking with no one to pull him up.

“Love you too babe,” Liam whispers, inching in.  Another kiss, noses rubbing.  Another moment when Zayn feels his heart beat once more.

“’m sorry,” Zayn sighs out.

“Don’t be,” Liam says, fingers inching under Zayn’s shirt.  Calloused fingertips, the stroke of a thumb, the heat Zayn misses.  “Just let it be.  Let it be and let me stay _here_.”

Fingers against his chest, right along his heart.  The flutter, the way Liam’s fingertips move with the beat.  Fuck, Zayn doesn’t know where he learned to love like this but, yeah, it keeps him focused.

It anchors him to the ground again and he doesn’t need to be weightless.  He needs to be in these arms, lips against Liam’s, breathing.  _Breathe_.  Just… inhale, exhale.

He tangles himself around Liam, their legs twined, thinking of lazy mornings in Zayn’s bed.  He shifts his head against Liam’s shoulder, smiling up at him in the dark.  He thinks about those days off, Liam spooning him until noon or Liam’s head against Zayn’s chest in the night.  He shifts his feet over Liam’s, fits his fingers between Liam’s thicker ones.  He nips at Liam’s chin, drowning and swimming all at once.  He lets Liam kiss his cheek, over his temple, pulling at his hair until Zayn’s head falls far enough back for Liam to kiss at his lips.

He breathes into the kiss.

He feels his heart against his chest, alive and willing.  He feels Liam’s hand over his stomach, drifting quietly while the bus rocks.  It rocks and lulls Zayn just like Liam’s kisses do.

He doesn’t feel overcome, buried beneath all of this.  It falls away long enough for him to remember it was just that – _a moment_.  They all have them, he knows.  It’s not a weakness – to cry, to fear, to feel overwhelmed.  He’s homesick and exhausted and, fuck, he needed Liam.  He needed all of them, circling him, pulling him back.

He’s breathing for them.  He’s breathing for Liam.  No, he’s breathing for himself.

Zayn’s finally breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't too bad, right? Short and to the point, eh? I hope it was enjoyable or enlightening on some level but you never know, right?
> 
> Hopefully I can find my inspiration again to write another lengthy fic soon, but I really needed to write this as a form of therapy. But this is really for anyone who has ever felt this way. To you and to myself I say: You're okay. I'm okay. We're all going to be okay. It's just a moment - it will pass. There's always someone, somewhere in your life that needs you more than you think. Just breathe. Breathe.
> 
> For yourself, _breathe_. xx [Jesse](http://jmcats.tumblr.com) ;)


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